


Exoneration

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7331101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa didn’t let herself think about the wreck of the battlefield left outside. All she wanted was for Jon to make her feel good, and to do the same for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exoneration

“ _I’ll protect you_ ,” Jon vowed.

It was a promise Sansa never expected him to be able to keep. 

But she had never felt as safe as she did now, tangled in Jon’s arms, his sturdy chest beneath her cheek, her ear pressed against the thud of his heartbeat that once stopped and started again. 

Jon had come to her after the gates of Winterfell were thrown open, half-drunk with battle lust. She’d never meant for this to happen; she knew Jon didn’t either, by the way he stuttered at first, the starts and stops, probably worrying about honor and the like, as if any of that mattered anymore. 

She didn’t know who moved first. She only knew that somewhere in between washing his hair and scrubbing his face free of sweat and blood and grime, all at once, his lips were on hers, and hers pressing back on his. 

The rush she felt at seeing Jon alive and unharmed dwindled in comparison to the feeling that surged through her as he let his hands tangle in her hair, his tongue sliding against hers. They were not the tepid, tender kisses she would have expected of him, of the Stark who’d always been the quietest, the most reserved, but rather skilled and strong and demanding. 

All of Sansa’s excuses died on her lips, lips that Jon seemed unable to stop kissing. “ _Things will never be the same_ ,” she wanted to tell him, but of course, no matter what, they never would or could be. “ _You’re my brother_ ,” she wished she could voice, except she had never treated Jon that way, not like Arya. “ _This is wrong_ ,” she thought, as a last resort, but nothing seemed good or right or true anyhow in this world. 

She ripped him free of leather and jerkin, tunic and mail that had perhaps saved his life in battle, just like she wanted Jon to now save her from her own mind, from the past, rescue her from the heated pulse low in her stomach, the ache of emptiness between her legs that threatened to torment her without release. 

Jon drew ragged breaths as her hands worked over him, freeing him and cleansing him, his own touch insistent, slipping down her body, tugging on strings that released her dress, unfastening buttons with fingers that shook, her dress puddling on the floor. 

For a man of the North, Jon’s skin was hot, burning with a strange contrast between smooth stretches and the raised ridges of his scars, and he only grew hotter the lower her hand went, until she had it wrapped around his cock. There was no question; he was just as willing as she. 

She stroked her hand down his length, feeling his body shudder with pleasure, shoving his pants down his legs with her free hand as he tripped out of his boots. 

The Sansa who lived here in Winterfell before could never have imagined bending to kiss a naked Jon Snow as he undressed her, never could have fathomed that she would want more, all of him, as much of himself as he would give. 

His eyes raked over her breasts, reverent but hungry, and she let him stare while she closed her hand around his cock again, her fingers smoothing over skin softer than velvet. 

“Sansa,” he said, her name the first word he’d uttered since they began this folly, the word a question, an affirmation, a prayer. 

She didn’t say his back. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t break, not now. 

Flames danced outside in the dark, in the fields beyond the walls of Winterfell, burning the dead in the way of the North, the deep North. 

But Sansa didn’t let herself think about the wreck of the battlefield left there. All she wanted was for Jon to make her feel good, and to do the same for him. 

The bed groaned under their combined weight, the old, worn flat feather mattress cold. She felt herself flush with something far from shame as she pushed his hand between her legs, felt herself slick against his fingers as he touched her, every strum an exoneration. 

He pushed one breast into his mouth and then shifted over to the other, kneading each in turn, sucking until she panted beneath him. 

_More_ , she begged silently, but Jon understood. He pressed one finger inside her, and when she murmured her assent, a second, crooking them till she could no longer stifle her gasps. There was nothing left to hide from him, not anymore, nor he from her, the muscles in his stomach jumping as her hand drifted towards his cock again, feeling him hot and hard, nothing at all like the ice she’d been convinced ran through his veins as a child. 

When that still wasn’t enough, he slid down her body and fit his broad shoulders between her legs, the scrape of his beard on the inside of her thighs setting her body alight, his feather-light kisses making her writhe in the unfamiliarity of anticipation rather than agony. 

And then Jon buried his tongue between her legs and made her forget, forget what had happened, where they were, who they were. She didn’t know where Jon had learned this particularly pleasing act—he had been a man of the Night’s Watch and he hadn’t been one to frequent the brothels like Theon—but she didn’t care. She sank a hand in his hair and bit her lip to keep quiet, to keep from biting out his name, to keep from uttering something she couldn’t take back. 

If this had been any other time, if she had not felt the desperation with which Jon kissed her and she returned, if he hadn’t been so damn adept at performing something so intimate, she would have asked herself what became of them, wondered how this twisted world had taken her and Jon, wrecked them, and put them back together _this_ way again. But every time her mind strayed towards those unwelcome places, Jon’s touch, the curl of his fingers, the way he sucked at her as though she were sweeter than honey, sweeter than the best Arbor gold from the south, brought her back to the present.

The tension of the day, weeks, months, years melted away under the ministrations of his lips and clever tongue until she peaked with a shocking intensity, her breath catching in her throat, the aftershocks knifing through her body. As he straightened again, fitting his legs between hers so his cock brushed right up against her center, she realized she hadn’t forgotten what it was like to make love with a man like this; she had never known in the first place at all. 

The warmth of his exhale on the sheen of her skin, his kiss on her neck, emboldened her. “I want you,” she breathed against his ear. 

Jon hesitated for the briefest moment, waiting for an assent, offering her an escape, stifling his code of honor, she didn’t know, nor care which. She whispered the words that had been her saving grace in captivity to encourage him, the words she’d mouthed to one of the serving girls who she’d taken a liking to so Ramsay wouldn’t hear, the words that set her mind and body free then and now: “Moon tea.” 

Jon speared into her, a fierce, carnal sound tearing from his throat. She arched her back up to meet him and wrapped her legs tighter, each thrust an atonement, an unspoken way of healing, a peculiar penance to make amends for the past. 

He cursed, his voice low and hoarse, words that would have left any proper lady scandalized. She held no illusions anymore—they only spurred her to dig her nails into the skin of his back till she was certain they would leave scratches. Even yesterday, perhaps, she would have thought such an action improper, and surely her misguided daydreams as a girl, too, would have been revolted by this kind of coupling, but the rougher he got, the more difficult it became for Sansa to avoid alarming the castle, the closer she clutched to him, the harder her hips bucked up to meet him. 

His strokes coarsened, becoming uneven, until he spilled, his heat pouring out into her, solidifying their sin. 

“Don’t,” she said when he made to move, so they laid, caught in a heady embrace, her face buried in soft curls that obfuscated the smell of smoke wafting from the outside and a strong shoulder she knew would shield her. 

When enough time passed for her to wonder what remained reality and which a dream, Jon dropped to her side and drifted off to sleep, while Sansa, lulled by the soft moonlight, her mind finally relieved of dread and grief, panic and horror, passion and fervor, rested against him. At last, closing her eyes, she recognized this emotion: the feeling of home.


End file.
